


Lancelot

by lillupon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alpha Arthur, Alpha Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon Era, Jealous Arthur, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Arthur, Omega Merlin (Merlin), Possessive Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 17:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillupon/pseuds/lillupon
Summary: “Grimmond is the third to fail this month. How am I meant to defend Camelot with rubbish like that?” Arthur pulls off his glove with two fingers, tossing it behind him for Merlin to catch.“I think I might be able to help,” Merlin pipes up.“You?” Arthur repeats. “What do you know about being a knight? You haven’t the faintest idea what it takes to be one. Courage. Fortitude. Discipline.” Anyone else would take it as an insult, but Merlin just bobs his head in pleasant agreement.“No, no. Of course I don’t,” Merlin says. “But I know someone who does.”An ABO retelling of 1x05 Lancelot in which Arthur is threatened by the arrival of a new, too-good-to-be-true alpha in Camelot.





	Lancelot

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Ato for encouraging me to take part, Schweetheart for the beta, and the Merlin Canon mods for organising this awesome fest! I had a ton of fun writing this. Enjoy the read! <3

“Your challenge is to last one minute in free combat with me. Succeed, and you’re a knight of Camelot. Fail, and you amount to nothing,” Arthur says, tightening the buckles of his vambraces. He turns to face the first candidate of the day.  
  
“Grimmond. Second son of Wessex,” he announces. He frees his sword in a metallic susurration. “Your time starts now.”  
  
With a roar, Grimmond rushes at him, rotating his blades like those of a windmill. It is a display of skill meant to intimidate, but Arthur has faced enough men in battle to those with the flashiest attacks are overcompensating for other weaknesses. He sidesteps the first series of cuts. When the knight-hopeful raises his sword high to strike, Arthur steps inside his guard and jams his elbow into the exposed flank. Grimmond doubles over with a grunt of pain. Before he can recover, Arthur smashes a knee into his face. Grimmond crumples to the ground, clutching a hand to his spectacularly bleeding nose.  
  
Arthur sighs. The entire bout had lasted a bare handful of seconds. He supposes the one upside to this is that Merlin got to see him take down another alpha nearly twice his size.  
  
Yes, Arthur is _that_ kind of alpha. The kind who growls and postures and drops everything to show off. Part of it is due to his upbringing—as the prince, he demanded attention from those around him. But the bigger part, perhaps three-quarters of it, is because Merlin has yet to be awed by his displays of strength and authority.  
  
He glances at the sidelines where Merlin stands with his face screwed up in a grimace of sympathy for Grimmond’s pain.  
  
Arthur strides over, accepting the waterskin Merlin offers him and taking a swig. “So,” he stays, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you impressed?”  
  
Merlin drags his eyes away from where two trainees are helping Grimmond to his feet. “Well, he didn’t last very long,” he says slowly.  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Not with Grimmond. Me.”  
  
“What about you?” Merlin asks, genuine confusion in his voice.  
  
Arthur stares at him for a long moment. _I meant me, you blockhead_ , he wants to say. _Are you impressed by_ me?  
  
Merlin blinks at him. “Arthur?”  
  
Arthur sighs again. “Never mind.” God help him, he has fallen for an idiot.  
  
(There is, of course, every chance Merlin knows exactly how Arthur feels for him. No one can be so oblivious, can they? But if that is true, it means Merlin has no interest in him, and is gently rebuffing his advances by playing the fool. Safer to be a fool than to say ‘no’ to the prince. For once, Arthur resents his station.)  
 

* * *

  
Arthur winds through the market with Merlin trotting along at his heels, arms burdened with armour.

  
“Grimmond is the third to fail this month. How am I meant to defend Camelot with rubbish like that?” Arthur pulls off his glove with two fingers, tossing it behind him for Merlin to catch.  
  
“I think I might be able to help,” Merlin pipes up.  
  
“You?” Arthur repeats. “What do you know about being a knight? You haven’t the faintest idea what it takes to be one. Courage. Fortitude. Discipline.” Anyone else would take it as an insult, but Merlin just bobs his head in pleasant agreement.  
  
“No, no. Of course I don’t,” Merlin says. “But I know someone who does.”  
  
“Is that right?” Arthur asks.  
  
“He saved my life,” Merlin says.  
  
Arthur glances sharply at Merlin. In that split second look, he searches for signs of injury and finds none. Merlin is as chipper as ever.

“You’re a servant. How could your life possibly be in danger?”  
  
“While I was out collecting mushrooms for Gaius in the forest,” Merlin says. “There was a great beast with the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle. I would have been flayed were it not for Lancelot. That’s his name—Lancelot.”  
  
“I think you’ve been reading too many fairy tales. No such creature exists.”  
  
“It does,” Merlin insists. “And Lancelot saved me from it. He came out of nowhere and charged at the beast without fear. Scared it off, if you can believe it. He’s really good. Honestly. A true knight of Camelot if I’ve ever seen one.”  
  
Arthur grunts. He doesn’t like it, the way Merlin says the man’s name, voice breathless in a way he has never heard before. Lance-a-lot. What a stupid name. “That terrific, is he? By whose standards? Yours?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, that’s not saying much now, is it?”  
  
“I know a skilled swordsman when I see one,” Merlin says. “He could put even you to shame.”  
  
Arthur comes to an abrupt stop. Merlin crashes into his back, managing to snatch the cowter from the air before it falls into a puddle of mud. Arthur turns around and aims a flat look at him.  
  
Merlin rushes to correct himself. “I mean, it would be a close fight, for sure. I have no doubt you’d come out on top, but he could give you a run for your money.”  
  
“That’s all very good,” Arthur says. “But unless your friend is a nobleman, it doesn’t matter whether or not you think he is better than me. First code of Camelot—only those of noble blood can serve as knights.”  
  
“What?” Merlin’s brows scrunch up. “That’s the first I’ve heard of this code.”  
  
“Really? These unfortunate ears of yours never picked up on it?” Arthur reaches out to tug at the nearest lobe. With his arms full, Merlin can’t bat away the offending hand like he usually does, and his attempts to duck away are unsuccessful. Arthur grins in the face of Merlin’s glare.  
  
“Luckily for us, he is a nobleman,” Merlin says.  
  
“Yes. Lucky us,” Arthur echoes. It is absurd for a prince to feel threatened by a lesser noble. But there is no mistaking the uneasiness low in his gut, the slow-seizing panic in his chest. There is another alpha encroaching on what is his—never mind that Merlin knows nothing of this claim—and he will not stand for it. “I’ll see him tomorrow on the training grounds. Tell him to bring his seal of nobility.”  


* * *

   
That afternoon, they receive a messenger from Greensward, a village an hour’s ride from the city. The man is frantic, hardly able to string together a coherent sentence. A beast, he says, with the wings of an eagle, had descended upon their village, goring with its talons those who were too slow to flee. At the end of his report, he drops to a knee, and begs for aid.

Arthur gathers his knights to ride, and his father joins them as well. They arrive in time to witness the aftermath of the attack. The beast is gone. Arthur orders three of his men to patrol the area and search for tracks, and the rest to question the villagers and offer their help wherever it is needed.

An hour later, he meets his father on the crest of the hill overlooking the village. He watches as villagers pass buckets of water down a line to douse the flames. Llamrei is restless beneath him, sensing his unease.

“What creature could have done this?” Uther asks.

“We found no tracks. In or out. It must have wings, as the villagers say.” _And the body of a lion and the head of an eagle_ , he adds to himself, recalling Merlin’s description of the beast he had encountered. “It took no livestock, only people. Whatever it is, it has a taste for human flesh.”

He thinks about about how terrified Merlin must have been. Merlin, with his basket of herbs and mushrooms, would not have stood a chance. Did he think he would die there? Arthur clenches his fists around the reins. He should have been there, to protect. Instead it had been another alpha, this Lancelot, who had done so.  


* * *

   
“Okay. That’ll do for today. Well done.” Arthur dismisses the trainees from their morning training session. They had focused on speed and agility drills today, in light of the events at Greensward. Against a beast thrice the size of a horse—or so the villagers claim—it is unlikely they will be able to defeat it through brute strength alone.

Arthur is dripping with sweat, the doublet he wears underneath his armour soaked and sticking to his torso. He heads over to the weapons rack and sheaths his sword. While he is bent over a wash basin, splashing his face, a shadow falls over him.  
  
“Prince Arthur.”  
  
Arthur looks up, pretending to see Lancelot for the first time. As though he hadn’t been keeping an eye on the alpha since he arrived at the field. He had seen Merlin help Lancelot into his armour, those long and clever fingers making quick work of the task. He had nearly let slip a warning growl when he saw Merlin squeeze Lancelot’s bicep and give him an encouraging smile.  
  
“Yes?” Arthur prompts when Lancelot remains silent for a beat, looking like he swallowed a frog. He can smell how nervous the alpha is, and a part of him is gratified to be the reason for it.  
  
Lancelot is startled into motion. “Lancelot. Fifth son of Lord Eldred of Northumbria.” He offers his seal with a bow, eyes dropping to his boots in deference. “I was told you were willing to meet me.”  
  
Arthur looks at the proffered seal and then at Merlin, who has drawn his lower lip between his teeth and is watching them with anxiousness written all over his face. Something ugly coils in his gut. Jealousy is not an attractive trait in a cultured alpha, but why must Merlin care so much that Lancelot be made knight? What is it about this man that makes Merlin hold him in such high esteem?  
  
In a rush of blood-hot emotion, Arthur backhands Lancelot, sending him sprawling onto his back.  
  
Lancelot pushes himself up and stares up at Arthur with wide eyes. Hurt and shocked. For a brief moment, the air goes bitter with his humiliation before he masks his scent.  
  
Arthur’s lips curl over his teeth. “Sluggish reaction. On the battlefield you’d be dead by now. Given what Merlin had told me about you, I expected better.” He turns on his heel and throws over his shoulder, “Come back when you’re ready.”  
  
Lancelot clambers to his feet. “I’m ready now, sire.”  
  
Arthur pauses mid-stride. “You are, are you?”  
  
Lancelot nods and closes his hand around his sword.  
  
There is something admirable in his earnestness and determination. He does not bristle the way other alphas would at the derision. Arthur suspects he would show his belly if it is asked of him. Most alphas have too much pride, and Arthur is no exception. The humility Lancelot displays is refreshing, and Arthur thinks he could grow to like this man were it not for Merlin. But all he can think about is the way Merlin’s fingers brushed Lancelot’s neck as he adjusted the hauberk, and call him petty, but he wants to see Lancelot disheartened.  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says. “You can start by cleaning out the stables.”  


* * *

   
Arthur tears into a loaf of bread and chews. Cuts himself a portion of the venison steak on his plate and pops it into his mouth. Merlin is standing at his side, quiet and sulky. He has been pouting all day, lips drawn into a soft moue and brows pinched together. Arthur would have found the look adorable if the disappointment were not aimed at him.  
  
“If you’ve got a problem, spit it out,” Arthur says.  
  
“You didn’t give him a fair chance.”  
  
“In battle, you should never count on your opponent to fight fair.”  
  
“But he wasn’t expecting—”  
  
“Oh, and bandits will just announce they’re about to stab you, will they?”  
  
“You know what I mean, Arthur. He didn’t think you would slap him out of nowhere, not while he was bowing,” Merlin says with a huff. “He has always dreamed of becoming a knight, and I know he would serve you well. He’s got courage and fortitude and discipline and all those knightly things in bounds. If you’d just give him a proper chance, I promise you won’t regret it.”  
  
Arthur swirls the wine in his goblet, watching the richly coloured liquid catch at the rim. He cannot tell if Merlin is trying to put in a good word for his friend or—“It sounds to me you have a crush on this man,” he says.  
  
“On Lancelot?” Merlin’s cheeks pinken and he lets out a bright laugh. Usually, the sound is a soothing balm to Arthur, but not when another alpha is the cause of it. “He’s handsome and lovely, but no. No, we’re just friends.”  
  
“Do you wish you were more?”  
  
“Does it matter what I wish? He is a nobleman and I am a servant.” Merlin’s gaze is on his hands where he has twisted his fingers into knots. His lips quirk into a wry smile. “We belong to different worlds.”  
  
“If he wanted you enough, it wouldn’t matter,” Arthur says.  
  
Merlin shakes his head. “But he doesn’t want me enough. I doubt he wants me even a little.”  
  
Arthur is gutted by the words. Merlin is everything he has ever wanted in an omega. In a few short weeks, Merlin has managed to worm his way into Arthur’s heart and make a home for himself there. To think Lancelot would throw away what Arthur would give up his entire kingdom to have… It makes Arthur hate him even more.  
  
“Then he is a fool,” he says before he can help himself. Merlin’s gaze snaps up to meet his, but he turns away. He pushes himself away from the table, the legs of his chair grating over the stone floors. “I have to go see my father. Have a bath prepared for when I return.”  


* * *

   
The next morning, Arthur finds Lancelot sitting in the shade of a guardhouse, sharpening his sword. Arthur grabs a broom leaning against the wall and tosses it to him. This time, the alpha is quick to react, catching it with ease.  
  
“Would you like me to sweep the guardhouse again, sire?” Lancelot inclines his torso in a slight bow, eyes trained on Arthur. Not a man to make the same mistake twice, then.  
  
“It certainly needs sweeping,” Arthur says, reaching for another broom for himself. He breaks off the head of it, turning it into a makeshift staff. “But that’s not why I’m here. My servant convinced me you deserve a second chance.”  
  
Lancelot steps on the bristles of his broom, yanking it free.  
  
“Come on, then,” Arthur says, beckoning Lancelot forward with a crook of his fingers. “Prove to me I’m not just wasting my time.”  
  
They circle each other, staffs at middle guard. Arthur sizes Lancelot up and wonders how to begin. They’re about the same height, but Arthur estimates he has a stone on Lancelot’s more wiry frame. Lancelot will try to overcome their difference in strength with his speed.  
  
The first few strikes they exchange are exploratory, tentative. Men like Grimmond, who value strength over strategy, display all their cards at the very beginning; it makes them easy to read. Lancelot takes his time, parrying Arthur’s staff and then darting out of reach.  
  
“Come on, Lancelot. You’re not beating a carpet,” Arthur taunts and gives his staff a twirl with a flick of his wrist.  
  
Lancelot lunges, thrusting his staff forward. Arthur leaps back in time to avoid being impaled through his sternum.  
  
The townspeople scatter out of the way to hover at the edges of the fight.  
  
Merlin was right. Lancelot _is_ good. He matches Arthur blow for blow, and the strength behind each of his attacks is jarring. But Arthur has been training ever since he could walk, wooden swords his playthings instead of dolls, and the first attempt on his life had happened when he was ten years of age. The difference in their resolves is that while Lancelot has trained to become a knight, Arthur has trained to lead them and to ensure the survival of his men, his kingdom, and himself.  
  
Their staffs cross with a resounding thwack. The force of the blow vibrates through Arthur’s arms. Unbalanced, he is pushed back several inches by Lancelot bearing down on him. With a growl, he shoves forward. Lancelot stumbles and Arthur uses the opportunity to launch his counterattack.  
  
Lancelot blocks the first flurry of attacks, retreating several steps to put distance between them. He is growing tired, shoulders heaving up and down with each breath. But his eyes remain sharp and he scarcely blinks, focus pinpointed on Arthur.  
  
Arthur advances and brings his staff hurtling down. Lancelot deflects it, just barely, but reacts too slow against the upcoming attack. Arthur steps into Lancelot’s unguarded flank and cracks the butt end of his staff across the man’s gut.  
  
The breath is punched out of Lancelot’s lungs and he doubles over, wheezing. Arthur does not give him time to recover. He charges forward, slamming his shoulder into Lancelot’s chest and sending him flying into a wheelbarrow laden with hay. In the blink of an eye, Lancelot is back on his feet, but he is unsteady and swaying.  
  
Such heavy blows in succession would have been enough to knock down any lesser knight. Arthur raises a brow, impressed.  
  
He lowers his staff and tosses it to Lancelot, who catches it with no little confusion on his face. “Well done, Lancelot. You just made basic training.” He turns on his heel, leaving the alpha gaping after him.  
  
Merlin will be pleased with him, Arthur thinks. He cares about that more than a crown prince should; but like any alpha, he cannot stay still when the omega he cares for is upset with him. This will make Merlin happy and Arthur will get a knight out of it. It is not so bad, he tells himself, even though he knows he has just given Merlin and Lancelot more reason to be in each other’s presence—  
  
A scream cuts through the air. The warning bells toll.  


* * *

   
Arthur looks through the window down at the courtyard. It is filled with bloodied and weary villagers displaced by the winged beast. The initial influx of refugees has died down to a trickle of those whose journeys were slowed by their wounds. Women sob; children scream. Some families sit pressed against the castle walls in clusters, silent and wearing vacant expressions. One young man had carried his father upon his back all the way to Camelot, only to learn the man had died from his stomach wound during the trek.  
  
Arthur’s stomach rolls with this morning’s breakfast. Beside him, his father watches the devastation with a stony face.  
  
Merlin dashes through the chaos, red neckerchief flashing. He offers potions and poultices to stop the worst of the pain and fight off infection. At one point, he drops to his knee in front of a red-faced and crying boy to stitch together a gash on the child’s thigh. From his vantage point, Arthur cannot tell what Merlin is saying to the villagers, but the omega gives comforting squeezes to many shoulders and soothes distressed babes into quiet. _A natural_ , Arthur thinks to himself, even though the thought is wildly inappropriate in this situation.  
  
Merlin is out there offering medical treatment and reassuring words, and all Arthur can do is watch helplessly as his people are ravaged. He steps back from the sight, angered by how powerless he feels.  
  
“I’d hunt down the beast myself, but I cannot track a creature through the air,” he says.  
  
“You don’t have to track it,” Uther says. He draws away from the window and continues down the corridor. “First Greensward, then Willowdale. The creature’s heading south, towards the mouth of the valley.”  
  
“To Camelot,” Arthur finishes for him. “But how many more must die before the beast reaches us? I will gather my men. We will ride out to meet—”  
  
Uther cuts him off. “No. There’s no point. It is as you say: you cannot track a creature through air. You will only make it in time to watch villages burn and the people flee. You will wait here and ensure your knights are ready for the fight.”  


* * *

   
That evening, Arthur briefs his knights on their new training routines that concentrate on attack and defense strategies against a winged foe. He dismisses them early, instructing them to rest well in preparation for the morning. Time is not on their side, and there is much to be done.  
  
Lancelot approaches him as he is making his way off the field. Annoyance spikes in Arthur. What will it take for the alpha to understand that, while Arthur has accepted him into training, it does not mean he likes the man. He prefers Lancelot stay away from him when they are not on the field. He already has to deal with the acrid and challenging scent of the other alpha on Merlin’s clothes. He doesn’t want to smell Merlin’s scent on Lancelot like the sweetest perfume.

(He had asked Merlin about it, in that roundabout way he had perfected to keep his feelings from being discovered. Merlin had admitted Lancelot was staying with him in that cramped little space he called a bedroom, but was no bigger than a closet.

“He has nowhere to go, Arthur,” Merlin had said. “I couldn’t let him sleep in the stables!”  
  
Arthur didn’t see why not. “So you offer him your bed.”  
  
Merlin flushed at the implications of Arthur’s words. “No, no. It’s not what you think. My bed is my own. Lancelot sleeps on the floor. He offered to sleep in Gaius’s workshop, but you know how it is, Arthur, there’s hardly enough room to put a foot down in there!”  
  
Arthur stared at the flustered omega, face impassive. His gut churned at the thought of Lancelot being anywhere near Merlin when he was defenseless in his sleep.  
  
“But it’s only temporary,” Merlin said quickly. “Just until he starts getting paid a knight’s salary. Er, I mean, until I can work something out with the quartermaster.”  
  
“Enough, Merlin. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”  
  
“But I do!” Merlin insisted. “You’ve got it all wrong, Arthur. I just don’t want you to think there’s another alpha that I—” He clamped his mouth shut here, eyes rounded and turning an alarming shade of red. Weakly, he finished, “It’s not like that between Lancelot and me.”)  
  
“Is there anything I can do, sire?” Lancelot asks, hurrying to keep up with Arthur’s stride. “I know in the event of a battle, only a knight may serve—”  
  
“That’s right, Lancelot. And you are not yet a knight,” Arthur says.  
  
Lancelot’s face falls.  
  
Arthur knows he is being unfair. Lancelot has shown considerable skill and tenacity and drive. Were he any other alpha, he would be exactly the kind of man Arthur wished to fight alongside him. He thinks he can see why Merlin found Lancelot deserving of his attentions.  
  
He knows he cannot afford to ostracize good men in these times. This is also the same man who faced the beast with only a sword and survived. With that, Arthur comes to a decision.  
  
He says, “Which is why I’m bringing your test forward. You’ll face me in the morning.”  


* * *

  
If Arthur thought Lancelot was skilled with the staff, he is even better with the sword.

Arthur is the first knight of Camelot, one of the best in the land. To think there exists a man who could match both his strength and speed is both humbling and infuriating. From what master did he receive tutelage?  
  
Arthur blocks the downward arc of Lancelot’s sword. His blade slides down the length of Arthur’s in a metallic screech, its path to severing his fingers halted by the crossguard. For what feels like long minutes, but must be seconds, their swords are locked, neither side yielding. Arthur tightens both hands on the hilt. The muscles of his arms strain to hold Lancelot at bay.  
  
With a snarl, Arthur frees one hand from the hold he has on his sword. Lancelot succeeds in driving the tip of his blade into the grass and rendering it useless. In that same moment, Arthur sends his fist into Lancelot’s jaw.  
  
Lancelot’s head snaps back, helmet gone flying as he is knocked to the ground. He does not rise.  
  
Arthur pulls off his own helmet and runs a gloved hand through his sweaty bangs, pushing them back from his forehead. The breeze is cool on his heated cheeks.  
  
He walks over to the fallen man and prods his arm with a foot. Lancelot remains motionless, save for the rocking caused by the poking. He hopes the alpha will not make this a habit, getting thrown like a ragdoll whenever he is punched.  
  
“Pity,” Arthur says. He glances at the sand glass timer. “You almost lasted the entire minute.”  
  
Lancelot’s eyes snap open and everything happens all at once. He sweeps Arthur’s legs out from beneath him. The wind is knocked out of Arthur’s lungs as he hits the ground. Before he can react, Lancelot has the tip of his sword at his throat.  
  
“Do you yield, sire?” Lancelot’s chest heaves for breath. His dark eyes gleam with pride.  
  
Arthur sees himself reflected in Lancelot’s blade. Wonders if Merlin polished it for him.  
  
The guards are on Lancelot within seconds. They grab him by shoulders, wrenching his arms behind his back and forcing him to his knees.  
  
“Stop,” Arthur commands. “Let him go.”  
  
He pushes himself to his feet, his defeat weighing heavy in his stomach. Lancelot is not the first to have bested him, and Arthur must not be so arrogant to think he will be the last. But it is not about his pride.  
  
It is about Merlin, who is cheering and jumping up and down with Gwen. Celebrating Arthur’s loss. Merlin’s eyes have crinkled into crescents with the force of his grin and his cheeks are flushed with joy. It hurts far more than Arthur thought it would, to witness the omega he cares for to so blatantly choose another alpha over him.  
  
Arthur pastes a smile onto his face. “Congratulations, Lancelot. Welcome to the knights of Camelot.”  


* * *

   
The worst part of it all is that Arthur cannot bring himself to hate Lancelot. He tries to hold onto his anger and jealousy, but Lancelot is every bit the good and honourable man Merlin promised he would be. Arthur feels like a heap of waste in comparison.  
  
Lancelot is everything he is not. Bronze-skinned to Arthur’s fair. A straight nose and set of teeth where Arthur’s are crooked. He offers Merlin earnest and kind words where Arthur can only manage insults, made tongue-tied by the depth of his own feelings. Lancelot is not bound by duty the way Arthur is. He is free to bond with whomever he wishes. With Merlin, if he wanted to.  
  
Arthur watches the easy way Merlin and Lancelot laugh with each other, and he worries. Merlin’s heat is due within the week; Arthur’s nose had detected the subtle change in scent, an extra hint of sweetness beneath the earthiness of herbs and flowers. Merlin and Lancelot have known each other for barely a fortnight, but there is no denying their friendship. Judging by the way they look at each other—Lancelot with intent, and Merlin with admiration—there might be something more than just friendship burgeoning between them. Merlin was wrong to think Lancelot didn’t want him, too.  
  
Will Merlin ask Lancelot to help him through his heat? It makes Arthur’s blood simmer to even think it. He has never been under any illusion Merlin would turn to him, of course. It would not be proper, for one. Alpha princes do not help their omega servants through heat, no matter how beautiful and lovely said omegas are. He cannot neglect his duties to keep Merlin company for the duration of his cycle. But he had hoped, nonetheless. Had hoped Merlin felt for him as he did for Merlin. Had hoped Merlin would cry for him and beg so sweetly for his knot that Arthur could hardly be blamed for being unable to say no.  
  
But now there is Lancelot. Lancelot, who has captured Merlin’s attentions in a way Arthur himself has been unable to. Even if he challenges Lancelot for the omega’s affections, he fears it would not be much of a competition at all.  


* * *

   
A feast is held in Lancelot’s honour the day following his knighthood. Arthur had given Merlin a rare night off for the celebrations.  
  
After the meal, there is mingling and dancing and even more drinking. Arthur is loose-limbed with alcohol, more relaxed than he has been in days. He takes another sip from his goblet. It seems this is the only way he can stand to be near Lancelot, who has managed to corner him despite Arthur’s attempts to look preoccupied whenever the man glanced his way. They sit together now, discussing battle formations.  
  
Lancelot seems to be unaware of the animosity Arthur harbours for him. Or perhaps he is just a better man than Arthur, and refuses to let it get in the way of a working relationship. Arthur knows he should do the same. One day, he will have to trust Lancelot with his life, and he cannot do that when the sight of him has his hackles rising.  
  
Lancelot is quiet for a moment. Arthur glances at him out the corner of his eyes, finding him staring off into middle-distance, entranced.  
  
Arthur follows the line of his gaze; Merlin and Gwen at the end of it. The pair of them are chatting by a pillar, enjoying sweet mead of their own.  
  
Merlin’s eyes flicker to meet his and he smiles before turning his attention back to Gwen.  
  
“Tell me,” Arthur says, tipping his chin in Merlin’s direction. “Do you find him beautiful?”  
  
“Hm?” Lancelot hums absentmindedly. “Beautiful? Yes.”  
  
Arthur takes in the slightly skewed neckerchief, the shape of Merlin’s mouth, and the way firelight flickers over his cheekbones, and he aches to press his lips to the cut of them. “Yes. I suppose he is,” he agrees quietly. “Excuse me, Lancelot. I’m going to call it an early night.” He sets down his drink and makes for the door.  
  
The corridors are quiet and empty save for the pair of guards making rounds. Muted laughter and song filter through the walls.  
  
“Arthur!”  
  
Arthur pauses and looks over his shoulder.  
  
Merlin stumbles towards him, as leggy and rickety as a newborn colt. Arthur reaches out to steady him by the elbow as he draws near. His nostrils flare as Merlin’s scent invades his nose, as honeyed as the mead he had been drinking.  
  
“Careful,” Arthur says. Letting his touch linger before drawing away. “You’ll brain yourself.”  
  
Merlin laughs, and Arthur cannot help the smile tugging at his lips. A drunk Merlin finds everything helplessly funny.  
  
“Are you leaving so soon?” Merlin asks.  
  
“Someone has to have their head on right in the morning.” There is no telling when the beast will attack Camelot, and he must be ready.

That, and he does not see the point in torturing himself by watching Merlin and Lancelot make eyes at each other.  
  
“Let me help you get ready for bed.”  
  
Arthur shakes his head. “Enjoy your night off, Merlin. I might not be so generous in the future.”  
  
“How do you expect me to enjoy myself when you’re off moping in your room?”  
  
“I don’t mope.”  
  
“Liar,” Merlin says. He sways forward, close enough that his hair brushes Arthur’s cheek as he sniffs. “I can smell it on you, you know. You’re sad. How come?”  
  
It is a testament to how much he has drunk this night that Arthur has forgotten to mask his scent. He does so now, even though the damage has already been done. “It’s nothing that won’t be better in the morning.”  
  
“You can talk to me, you know,” Merlin says earnestly. He grasps Arthur’s bicep and squeezes, prompting him to speak his mind.  
  
“I don’t think so, Merlin. Not about this.” He shakes off Merlin’s hand. “I’ll see you in the morning. Try not to be late for once, will you?”  


* * *

   
Arthur is roused from a restless sleep by a knock at the door. The sun has only begun to rise, its weak light filtering through a slit in the curtains.  
  
“Sire?” a voice calls. Not Merlin. “The king wishes to see you in the throne room immediately.”  
  
Arthur groans, flopping over to bury his head in his pillow. He slept not a wink last night, tossing and turning in his sheets, and driving himself mad as he imagined Lancelot and Merlin celebrating alone in the privacy of their room. Is he right to be worried Merlin was not the one to wake him this morning?  
  
He shakes his head to clear away the last dregs of sleep. “Tell the king I will be with him shortly.”  
  
He rolls out of bed, using the momentum to carry him to his washbasin where he splashes water on his face. His fingers fumble with the ties of his shirt and trousers, thick and clumsy compared to Merlin’s deft hands. He likes that about Merlin—he likes many things about his omega manservant—but especially that Merlin is blundering in all things except for those concerning Arthur’s care.  
  
Within minutes, Arthur arrives in the throne room where his father and Geoffrey await him. He raises a questioning brow. What could Geoffrey, court genealogist and library keeper, have for them that was so important Arthur had to forgo breakfast?  
  
Not long after, Lancelot joins them, hands locked behind his back by two alpha guards. They throw Lancelot to his knees before the king.  
  
Arthur takes a step forward, alarmed by the treatment of a knight of Camelot, but his father holds out a hand.  
  
“Tell him what you told me,” Uther says to Geoffrey, not taking his eyes off Lancelot.  
  
It is now that Arthur notices the papers—Lancelot’s seal of nobility—in Geoffrey’s hand.  
  
“These credentials are faked,” Geoffrey says.  
  
Arthur’s eyes widen. It makes sense now, why Lancelot had always deferred to him, when most nobles sought their voices to be heard. He should have known. How could he have been so stupid, so blinded by his jealousy that it never occurred to him? Lancelot does not speak like a knight. Neither does he act like a knight, too soft and eager to serve.  
  
But hell, the man fights like one.  
  
“The seal itself is faultless. It is forgery of the highest possible standard, but a forgery it must be. There is no record of a fifth son of lord Eldred of Northumbria.”  
  
What Geoffrey is saying must be true, for Lancelot’s shoulders slump and he closes his eyes. It is an admission of guilt if Arthur has ever seen one. He is torn between two reactions. Part of him wants to crow, ‘Hah! Not so honourable a man now, is he, Merlin? Even a man like Lancelot is willing to lie to further his ambitions.’ But another part of him knows the chivalrous qualities Lancelot displayed could not be faked.  
  
Geoffrey continues, “Therefore, he—”  
  
“Lied,” Uther concludes, voice low and cold. “Do you deny it?”  
  
Lancelot shakes his head, pain etched into the lines of his face. “No, sire.”  
  
Uther takes two slow steps towards Lancelot, looming. “You’ve broken the first code of Camelot. You’ve brought shame upon yourself and upon us. You are not worthy of the knighthood bestowed upon you. You never were. And you never will be.”  
  
Lancelot’s nostrils flare as he fights to keep control of himself and to smother his scent. Arthur catches the faint bitter hint of it in the air before it is gone.  
  
“Get him out of my sight,” Uther says and turns his back on the alpha.  
  
Arthur waits until only he and his father remain in the room before speaking. “Father.”  
  
“Do you contest my judgement?”  
  
Arthur can hardly believe it himself, defending the alpha he wants to hate but cannot. “His deception was inexcusable. But he meant no harm, Father, I’m sure of it. He wished only to serve.”  
  
“The first code is a sacred bond of trust. It is what binds the knights together.” Uther looks Arthur in the eyes and asks, “How can you trust a man who has lied to you?”  


* * *

   
Arthur has bigger concerns than a man who has lied to him.  
  
The beast attacks that afternoon, its great wings blotting out the sun as it wheels over the castle. Its piercing shrieks raise the hairs on his arms and at the nape of his neck. Arthur rushes to the courtyard, his knights following him in a spearhead formation.  
  
The creature is impervious to spear and sword. It smashes their shields into splinters and tosses aside grown men like pups. Arthur finds himself wishing Lancelot were here. He wonders what the alpha had done to scare off the beast. He had never been able to tamp down his pride enough to ask, and now his men would pay the price.  
  
Arthur grabs a torch that had fallen to the ground and waves the flames at the beast, like he would to keep wolves at bay. To his surprise, it works. With one last screech, the beast launches itself into the air, perhaps deciding that there are easier pickings than the prince of Camelot.  


* * *

   
“You said your knights were the best in the land. You proved that today,” Uther says.  
  
Did he? Arthur couldn’t be so sure. Their weapons had done nothing. Sir Lief, a younger knight, had taken a talon to the shoulder, the beast’s claws punching through his armour, as easily as paper, to pierce the vulnerable skin beneath. Luckily, the beast had avoided any vital organs, and Gaius had promised full recovery. But if the creature had not retreated, it could have made skewers of them all. That makes him wonder—why did the creature flee? It had the upper hand on them the entire fight.  
  
The stationed guards open the doors to the council chambers for them. Merlin and Gaius are already inside, and Arthur gives them a slight nod of acknowledgement.  
  
“All I know is that it’s still out there,” Arthur says, neither denying nor accepting the praise.  
  
“Then let’s not wait for it. The kingdom has been menaced by this creature for too long. We finish this now.”  
  
“Sire, if I may,” Gaius says, taking a step forward. All attention turns to the physician. “I’ve been researching this creature. I believe it to be a griffin.”  
  
“A griffin,” Uther repeats.  
  
Gaius continues, “The griffin is a creature of magic. It is born of magic—and it can only be killed by magic.”  
  
“You are mistaken. It is a creature of flesh and blood like any other.” Uther clasps Arthur’s arm. “My son proved that today.”  
  
Arthur shakes his head. “No. I think there may be some truth in what Gaius is saying. The griffin was unharmed. Our weapons were useless against it.”  
  
“Useless?” Uther asks. “Arthur, the beast fled! It tasted our steel once, and the next time will be its last. When will your knights be ready to ride again?”  
  
Arthur exhales through his nose, frustration bubbling up. It is easy for his father to order the knights around while he remains in Camelot, warming his feet by the fire. If Gaius is right—if the beast could only be killed by magic—his father is sending them to their deaths.

And yet what choice does he have? He must defend his people, even if it means a certain death for him.

He pushes his hair back from his forehead with a gloved hand. “An hour. Maybe two.”  
  
Uther nods. “Good. We finish this tonight.”  
  
There is another thing Arthur must do before he leaves with his knights to hunt down the beast. He has to free Lancelot. Knowing his father, the man would be happy to let Lancelot rot in the dungeons for the rest of his days. Arthur cannot, in good conscience, allow that to happen.  
  
It hurts to lose a man like Lancelot. He sees his own pain and disappointment reflected in the alpha’s eyes when he tells him to leave Camelot and never return.  


* * *

   
Merlin slips the hauberk over Arthur’s head, the chainmail chiming and clinking as he tugs it down to fall over his torso. He is uncharacteristically quiet tonight, eyes downcast as he helps Arthur’s into his armour. He looks beautiful and pensive, the dark fringe of his lashes touching his cheekbones and his full lips made wet by his tongue.  
  
And he smells damnably good—an omega on the cusp of heat. It is a scent that could drive him insane. Arthur takes short, shallow breaths through his mouth, though it does little to ease his want. He can almost taste the pre-heat pheromones on his tongue, melting and spreading like snow on his palate. His lungs burn with the desire to take a gasping inhale.  
  
“Are you worried for me?” Arthur asks after long minutes of silence.  
  
Merlin glances up at him. “Me?” he repeats, sounding affronted that Arthur would even suggest such a thing.  
  
“Mm-hmm. You. You seem worried. You’ve been fussing over my sword and armour all evening. And you’re quiet. Most days I can’t get you to shut up.”  
  
“No. I’m not worried. Of course not,” Merlin says quickly, ducking his head. “Don’t be silly.”  
  
The warmth blooming in Arthur’s chest has nothing to do with the fire crackling in the fireplace. A sly smirk grows across his face.  
  
“Really? Not even a little? Apparently this creature, this griffin, can be destroyed only be magic. I could die, you know.” His tone is light and he phrases it as a joke, but he wants to hear it. Wants to hear that Merlin is scared for him, that Merlin cares for his safety.  
  
Merlin gives him a sharp look and yanks the straps of his vambraces so tightly Arthur winces.  
  
“Ow, what was that for?” Arthur asks.  
  
“You don’t believe what Gaius says is true,” Merlin says accusingly.  
  
He does. Gaius had been his father’s friend and advisor since long before Arthur was born, and Arthur himself had grown up under the physician’s care. There are few people he trusts more, and he knows Gaius would never lie to him. Not about something as crucial as this.  
  
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. Even if there was a sorcerer or witch that would come to the defense of a kingdom that would see them burned…”  
  
Merlin is silent for a moment. He licks his lips. Arthur’s eyes drop down to follow his pink, darting tongue.

“And if such a person existed?” Merlin asks.  
  
Arthur snorts. “Then my father would have them killed. It would not matter to him that a sorcerer saved a kingdom. He would lure them into the castle under the guise of celebration and have them burned the next day. The use of magic is not permitted. The knights must prevail with steel and sinew alone.”  
  
Without segue, Merlin says, “Let me come with you.”  
  
“What? Merlin, don’t be ridiculous. No. Absolutely not.”  
  
“I can help you, Arthur, I—”  
  
“How on earth do you plan to do that? You don’t even know how to hold a sword properly.” Arthur shakes his head. “You’ll be useless to me. No, worse than that. You’ll be a distraction. How can I fight a griffin when I have to keep one eye on you to make sure you don’t trip and impale yourself on your own sword?”  
  
Merlin glares at him, fierce blue eyes flickering with golden light from the fireplace. He squares his shoulders and clenches his fists at his side. His jaw is set in defiance. “You think so little of me?”  
  
“I think you’re a servant, and that you should stick to what you know,” Arthur says. “It is not your job to protect Camelot. That duty is mine.”  
  
“And my duty is to protect you, Arthur.”

“Your duty is to serve me, and nothing more. I do not require your protection.”

“Please,” Merlin says. “Let me ride with you.”  
  
“I said no, Merlin!” Arthur bellows, voice tinged with an alpha’s command.  
  
Merlin flinches away from him, shoulders drooping. He looks at Arthur petulantly.  
  
Arthur swallows, throat clicking, ashamed for letting his emotions overcome him. He hadn’t meant to use his alpha voice on Merlin. It is near impossible for an omega to challenge anything an alpha says with their Voice. While alphas like his father used it to his advantage, Arthur had never the need nor the desire to do so. He wanted Merlin to follow his orders of his own free will, out of respect and loyalty. Not because Arthur had demanded it in a vocal range omegas were powerless against.  
  
Softer now, he says, “I want you to stay here. I need to know that you will be safe.”  
  
“It’s not me you should be worried about.”  
  
“I can’t help it, can I?” Arthur says gruffly. “If only you weren’t so clumsy and helpless and endearingly terrible at everything you do, and if only you didn’t possess the kind of heart people would take advantage of. I worry you’ll do something irreparably stupid while I’m not around—” _And I worry that someone will steal you away from me._  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Arthur sighs and closes his eyes. His cheeks grow hot. What is he saying? He has been made bold by the pheromones of Merlin’s upcoming heat. The knowledge that this may be the last time he ever sees Merlin isn’t helping.  
  
At least Lancelot is out there to take care of his wayward omega.  
  
Arthur opens his eyes when he feels a hand on his chest. Merlin is smiling at him, soft and fond. They are standing so close to each other, the space between their bodies charged with electricity. Arthur draws in a ragged breath.  
  
Merlin leans in, brushing his nose at the underside of Arthur’s jaw, scenting there. His plump lips brush over his neck. Arthur’s hands are shaking and he finds himself grasping at Merlin’s slim hips. He digs his fingers into the flesh. It is too much and not enough all at once. His cock twitches in his pants and he can smell Merlin’s growing arousal in response to it.  
  
“Arthur…” Merlin whispers.  
  
Arthur’s nostrils flares as the musky fragrance of what could only be Merlin’s slick reaches him. Merlin is wet for him just from a bit of scenting. He groans out a curse, nudging at Merlin’s head to clumsily smash their lips together.  
  
Merlin moans and loops his arms around Arthur’s neck, pressing even closer. “Yes,” he hisses. “Finally.”  
  
Arthur licks at the seam of Merlin’s lips, nibbles and bites. He smiles into the kiss when the omega gasps, that sweetly pliant body shaking all over for him. Merlin leaks yet more slick. The heavenly smell twines with the scent of Arthur’s own need.  
  
He wants his armour off, and then he wants to strip Merlin naked until they are crushed together, skin-to-skin. He slides his hand beneath Merlin’s tunic, growling with frustration when his gloved hand mutes the sensation of skin. It is a jarring reminder that now is not the time for this.  
  
With great effort, Arthur pulls himself away. Merlin follows him, sucking Arthur’s bottom lip between his own. He whimpers when Arthur gently pushes him away.  
  
Merlin blinks at him slowly, confused, eyes glazed over and wanting. His pupils are blown, obliterating the steel-blue of his irises. His lips look plumper than usual, glistening with saliva and bitten to a deep red.  
  
“We can’t. Not right now. My knights are waiting for me,” Arthur says roughly. “If I come back—”  
  
“When,” Merlin corrects. “When you come back.”  
  
“When I’m back, we’ll talk about this.” Arthur unwinds his arm from around Merlin’s waist and takes a step back. Adjusts his heavy cock. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid like try to follow me?”  
  
Merlin crosses his arms over his chest.  
  
“Merlin,” Arthur says, warning. “Promise me.”  
  
With a huff of annoyance, Merlin bites out, “Fine. I promise.”  
  
Merlin walks with him to the stables, sticking close to his side the entire time. The knights look at them curiously, no doubt smelling Merlin’s scent on Arthur like a claim, and vice versa. Leon ducks his head to hide his smile when Arthur scowls at him.  
  
Merlin hands him the reins to Llamrei, the touch of their hands lingering for a beat. Arthur swings a leg over the destrier and settles into the saddle.  
  
“Everything will be all right, Arthur,” Merlin tells him.  


* * *

   
A shriek pierces the night silence, rousing birds that break for the sky in a flutter of wings and caws. Arthur tightens his grip on the reins. Against all instinct, he leads his men in the direction of the commotion: into the forest.

The mist is thick tonight. As they venture deeper into the woods, the trees block the light of the moon. Arthur can barely see his hand in front of his face, but he does not want to risk lighting torches. He knows the fire would announce their position, making them easy targets; neither does he want to drop a torch during battle and set the forest ablaze.

It is too quiet. Nothing but the sounds of their horses snuffling, and hooves crunching over forest litter. That is the first sign something is wrong. Even at night, the forest is never silent. It should be filled with chirruping insects and prowling wolves.

They reach a small clearing. Their horses prance nervously in place, snorting and tossing their heads.

A shadow melts out of the treeline, its gleaming white head catching the moonlight.

“On me!” Arthur shouts, even as his knights are arranging themselves into the formation he had drilled into them.

The griffin screeches, wings flared, and charges at them, breaking through their line with ease. Arthur slashes at it, his blade grating over its flank without drawing a speck of blood. Behind him, there is a clattering of armour and a howl of pain. Arthur yanks Llamrei around to see one of his knights thrown from his horse to land at an unnatural angle.

The beast attacks. It slashes with talons as sharp as their swords and gouges the horses with its beak. Arthur bares his teeth in frustration. He cannot get close, forced backwards by beating wings. Llamrei rears, blowing air harshly out of its nostrils, terrified, whenever the griffin snaps a beak in their direction.

Arthur leaps from his destrier. If what Gaius says is true—and he knows it is—there is no advantage to fighting horseback. His knights follow suit.

While the griffin’s attention is occupied by his men, Arthur circles around it and strikes. He thrusts his sword at its hind legs, hoping to slow. It must have a weak spot. But it is not its belly, nor its wings, nor its chest. He has never wielded his sword with such speed or fury, and yet his weapon does nothing. It skates off the beast with the sound of metal striking metal.

The knights jab at the creature with their spears. Leon’s aim for its eye is true, but chips of wood fly as his spear is splintered upon contact.

It is a battle that could drag for hours, but they do not have hours. They are human, and soon, they will tire. Their movements will grow slow. They will no longer have the strength to attack, only to defend, and then, they will no longer have the strength to do even that. Arthur has a sinking feeling the beast is toying with them, the way a cat might bat at a mouse.

The griffin’s tail cracks in the air like a whip, and Arthur manages to grab it as he flashes past him. Gathering his energy, he yanks. He cannot be sure what he is doing. He only knows he must divert its attention from his men, so they at least can live.

The griffin turns on him, then, rearing upon its hind legs.

Arthur ducks, but he is not fast enough to avoid the talons aiming for his head. A claw catches him across the forehead as he rolls out of range.

“Fall back!” Arthur shouts, gesturing for the men who remain standing to retreat. Leon and Kay scramble behind the cover of a boulder. The rest of the knights, six of them, are littered across the forest floor, faces blanched under the moonlight.  
  
Arthur curses. He drags a hand over his eyes, smearing the blood there. He is bleeding like the devil. It does not hurt. It is annoying more than anything; the flow of blood obscures his vision.  
  
Their weapons are useless against the griffin. Its feathers are as impenetrable as the strongest castle walls. Arthur no longer has his sword; the beast had caught his blade between its claws and shattered it into shards. All he has left is a dagger that the griffin’s talons dwarf in comparison.  
  
He thinks about his promise to Merlin, the beginnings of something emerging between them, sweet and tentative. Of course he has to cock it all up by dying. He swears again, dashing across the clearing to snatch up a fallen spear from the ground.  
  
He twists, arm raised for a throw, but the griffin is gone. He spins around, alert, searching. He can barely hear a damn thing above the pounding of his heart and his ragged breathing. More blood drips into his eyes. He hurries to wipe it away.  
  
When his vision refocuses again, the first and last thing he sees is outstretched talons before the world lurches and everything goes dark.  


* * *

   
Arthur groans as he comes to. His head throbs with blood and heat. Using a boulder for support, he hauls himself up to his feet. The forest swims and goes fuzzy at the edges. He stumbles and nearly falls on his arse again, but manages to right himself.  
  
He swings around, searching for the griffin, and finds its body limp on the ground mere feet from him. Smoke rises from the creature’s body, the tendrils snaking towards the sky. Dead, Arthur thinks, numbly, uncomprehending. The sound of hooves crunching over leaves draws his attention away from the beast.  
  
“Lancelot,” Arthur breathes as the knight steps into view.  
  
“Sire,” Lancelot says.

“Lancelot. Did—did you…?”

Lancelot smiles at him.

Arthur feels a relieved grin breaking across his face. He lets out a sharp laugh. “You did it, Lancelot! You killed it!” How the alpha felled a beast Arthur could not even scratch, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. Better to remain ignorant of the answer.  
  
Lancelot dismounts from his horse and Arthur limps forward to meet him. He claps a hand over the man’s elbow.  
  
“Well done, Lancelot. You’ve proven yourself worthy of the title of knight of Camelot. If it were up to me, I’d have your knighthood restored. It would be an honour to fight with you,” Arthur says, surprised by his own sincerity. “I will tell my father all you have done for me.”  
  
“Thank you, sire. Your words mean more to me than you could ever know.”  


* * *

   
Uther is a man of tradition and refuses to break the law for any man. Lancelot is still banished from Camelot. Arthur sees him off at the gates and promises him things will be different when he is king.  
  
The next day passes in a flurry of activity. Arthur orders the knights who are fit for travel to escort villagers back to their home. He sends along with them a handful of squires to help the villagers rebuild ruined homes and to help with preparations for winter. The castle itself was not spared either; the cobblestones had been crushed to dust beneath the griffin’s claws, and it falls to Arthur to arrange for their repair. He barely has any time alone with Merlin.  
  
What happened between them that night feels distant and dreamlike, unsubstantial in the light of day. He had meant every word he said, but what if Merlin had kissed him on the spur of the moment? But the way Merlin had smiled at him, so achingly tender it hurt Arthur’s heart to even think about it… Surely it meant something.  
  
The sun has long since set by the time Arthur drags himself back to his chambers. Merlin is already aside. A fire crackles in the fireplace and a dinner of all his favourites—herb-crusted capon; soft, white bread, and creamy pudding—is laid out for him. Merlin’s scent perfumes the air, both putting him at ease and making his cock stir despite his fatigue.  
  
Arthur lets his doublet slide from his shoulders and flings it in the general direction of the bed. “Have you already eaten, Merlin?”  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
“Join me. There is plenty here for us both,” he says, waving a hand at an empty chair.  
  
Merlin pours them wine before settling beside Arthur. They eat in silence, and Arthur takes the opportunity to study Merlin in between bites of juicy fowl.  
  
“I’m sorry about Lancelot. I know you liked him, and that he liked you,” he says carefully, watching Merlin’s face for any outward sign of reaction.  
  
“I’m sorry, too. Lancelot was a good man and an even better friend.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat and scratches his neck. “Was that all he was? A friend?”  
  
“Yes. He was only a friend,” Merlin says firmly, meeting Arthur’s eyes as he does so. “I feel for him as I would a brother, but it is nothing compared to how much I care for you.” He gaze drops back to his plate and he pushes around the potatoes. It is too dark to tell, but no doubt there is a blush creeping up his neck, blossoming across his cheeks and over the delicate shell of his ears. Arthur doesn’t know anyone who blushes as easily as Merlin.

Fighting back a grin, Arthur reaches for Merlin’s hand. He cradles it in his own, smoothing a thumb over soft skin. He brings Merlin’s hand to his lips, kissing each bony knuckle and delighting in the sharp intake of breath.  
  
The scent of Merlin’s slick reaches him, and it has his mouth flooding with saliva. How easy it is, to make Merlin wet. The omega squirms in his seat, watching Arthur with blown pupils.  
  
Arthur lets go of Merlin’s hand. “Take the next week off.” Four days for the actual heat, and a generous three days to recover.  
  
Merlin blinks at him, dazed. “Okay,” he whispers. Then, he takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself. “Um—will you… You can say no, of course. Of course you can. I know how busy you are. But if you find yourself with spare time and nothing to waste it on…” He swallows and licks his lips. “Perhaps you could come visit me.”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, without hesitation. “If you’ll have me, I’d love to.”

 

 


End file.
